


Acceptance

by infragilis



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Romance, Terminal Illnesses, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:10:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infragilis/pseuds/infragilis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Selene Amell and Alistair face the realities of a Grey Warden's lifespan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acceptance

**Author's Note:**

> Brought to you by the Awakening epilogue in which wardens Alistair and Selene eventually disappear, and my own experiences with losing someone to terminal illness.
> 
> I don't own anything, it all belongs to Bioware, etc. etc.

_“Some day, we’ll have to go back, you know.” My voice was steady, easily belying my emotions. The years I had spent as Warden Commander of Ferelden drilled into me the importance of maintaining control. What a long way I had come from the scared youth, fresh out of my Harrowing._

_Beneath the façade of control, my heart was nearly beating out of my chest at the prospect of a few years of freedom._

_“Leave that for now. It’s already been twenty years since the Blight. We’re allowed something of a retirement. Hand in your resignation, and I’ll hand in mine.”_

_I rubbed my arms against an imaginary chill, folding them across my middle. “You can’t just quit the Wardens, Alistair. And where would we go?”_

_“Nowhere in particular at first.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “We’ll figure it out.”_

_I smiled, looking to him, seated in his favorite chair by the fire in our informally shared suite at Vigil’s Keep. This was one of my favorite memories of him. Not that night in particular, although it certainly stood out for obvious reasons, but the way he seemed terribly natural there, swirling the remains of his wine in the goblet he held loosely in one hand, his ankle crossed over the opposite thigh. It was as if he belonged there, with me, and always had._

_“Sleeping on the side of the road, in tents?”_

_“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve gone soft on me! Sleeping in a warm bed and getting hot meals will do that. Tsk, tsk. Such a shame.”_

_I swatted him on the shoulder playfully. “It was a question, not an objection.”_

_“What do you say, my lady?” Leaving his drink on the table by his chair, he stood and took my hands in his. “Will you run off into the sunset with me?”_

_For a moment, I managed to keep my composure, looking into his eyes, gleaming with mischief, and then I laughed. I could always read even the subtlest notes of dry humor in his voice._

_Alistair leaned in, his forehead against mine. He smelled faintly of wine—wine, sandalwood and leather. Try as he might, he couldn’t suppress his own smile. “I ask you to run away with me and you laugh. I mean it, Selene.”_

_“I know. I know you do, just as you know I will.”_

* * *

 Staring down into her cup of Dwarven ale, Selene tried to shake the growing knot of anxiety that had been building in her stomach for the better part of a year. It wasn’t going away anytime soon, so she did her best to drown it.

She didn’t look up when Alistair sat across the table from her with a plate of nug prepared in one of the many ways dwarves try to dress up the rubbery meat.

“I miss surface ale too,” he said, patting her hand in mock sympathy before digging into his food, which somehow managed to look more revolting than it smelled. When she didn’t react, his eyes narrowed in concern and he asked quietly, “Are you all right?”

“As well as one would assume.” Selene glanced up at him. “Don’t look at me like that. I can’t stand the pity.”

“Me, pity you? I’m the one with a plate of roasted nug, seasoned with lichen and moss. Mmm, delicious,” he said, making a face as he took a bite from his fork. She couldn’t resist smiling in appreciation of his deflection.

* * *

_We were living in Dairsmuid, on the Rivaini coast. I had fallen so in love with the ocean on crossing that Alistair secured us a luxurious flat for rent, situated beautifully so that I could sit on the balcony and listen to the waves while I read._

_“Or whatever it is retired mages do when their retired Templars aren’t around to harass them,” he’d said lightly, kissing my cheek and resting his chin atop my head. I leaned into him, looking out over the water through the window, so completely content I thought my heart would burst from happiness._

_The years we spent there were the best of my life. Alistair taught me to fish and swim in the ocean, and I read Orlesian poetry on our balcony after dinner. For the first time, unrestricted by professionalism and duty, we held hands publicly in the marketplace, and again every time we walked on the beach. I attempted to teach myself to paint, and gave it up after a valiant effort, and Alistair learned—much more successfully—to carve._

_We had been there, living in blissful retreat, for about three years when the nightmares first started to come. A better name for them might be “night terrors,” or “hallucinations,” but whatever they were scared Alistair nearly to death when they came on me for the first time._

_The way he tells it is that he woke up to a bloodcurdling scream. In his smallclothes and armed with a dagger, he jumped out of bed and moved quickly and quietly to the source of the scream—the balcony door. There I stood, clutching the railing in my white nightgown, and sobbing something about not wanting to be a broodmother._

_I vacillated between hostility—trying to attack Alistair for stopping me from going to the darkspawn—and abject horror at the thought of what would happen when I arrived—which prompted me to attempt throwing myself from the balcony._

_The next morning I remembered the nightmare but not the episode on the balcony. I started taking potions to suppress the “sleepwalking,” although the dreams would still come, and eventually even the potions didn’t help. We installed a lock on our bedroom door, the key to which Alistair wore on a chain about his neck. Neither of us particularly wanted to talk about it, beyond finding a solution for this or that bizarre behavior of mine, to protect me from myself. We never did, knowing what it meant, at least for me. We ignored it, this first sign that it was almost time for me to go to Orzammar._

* * *

 She no longer slept, instead roaming the halls and streets of Orzammar, reading all there was to be read at the Shaperate. The Dwarves understood; she was not the first to come for the Calling and she wouldn’t be the last. In what she would perceive to be the mornings, Alistair would come find her for breakfast—of which she ate very little—and they would attend the Provings or see what needed doing for the king. One such morning, he found her on the bridge to the arena, leaning on the railing with her elbows as she looked out over the lava below.

“The Shaper noticed corruption on my hand this morning,” she said flatly. “He tried to pretend he hadn’t, but that made it all the more obvious that he had.”

Alistair said nothing, but placed a consoling hand over both of hers.

“We need to go before I…before I can’t think anymore. My thoughts are muddled and there are gaps in my memory. Alistair, I want to see the sun one more time, just one last time, before we go into the deep, to find them…to let them kill us…”

“Shh,” he said, pulling her trembling body into his arms. “Breathe, Selene. If you’re ready, we’ll go. And of course we’ll go up and spend some time in the sun beforehand. Whatever you want.”

“Don’t let me be like Laryn, don’t let them force me to eat…that…and _help_ them. Please don’t.”

“I promise—I won’t let you be a broodmother.” He was quiet a moment before continuing. “We could leave later today, or tomorrow.”

She pulled back, fidgeting with her hands as she considered. “Tomorrow morning, then. You’re not as sick as I am, darling. You shouldn’t…you should just bid me farewell.” Tears shone brightly in her eyes and she looked away.

“Selene, I’m already having the nightmares. This is when most wardens go on their Calling.”

“It’s just…you’re better off than I am. You could still have time, you could…you could still enjoy what’s left of your life.”

Alistair shook his head. “What would I enjoy in life, without you?” He brushed her wispy, thinning auburn hair out of her eyes, cupped her tear-streaked face, and kissed her.

* * *

_The first time we saw the corruption on me, we were still living in Rivain, going on as if nothing was wrong. It had been two years since the nightmares had begun and we knew our time—this golden era we had been living—was coming to an end._

_At first the terrors came on every once in a while, then more regularly—once every few days, and eventually every night. I became afraid to go to sleep, only succumbing to slumber when I was completely and utterly exhausted, and even then, only under lock and key._

_I was at my dressing table, brushing out my hair, when I caught Alistair’s expression in the mirror. I could see the tightening of his jaw, watched him grip the bedpost tightly and swallow once, and again, before he said, “Selene…your back.”_

_“What? What’s there?” I strained to see. I turned my back to the large vanity mirror and used a handheld mirror to find the blackened spot the size of my hand._

_In a strange turn of events, I held myself together while Alistair wept on my shoulder. Previously, it had always been him who comforted me as I wept—an uncharacteristic but frequent occurrence—but even he could only be strong so long. I suppose that when it was “just” the dreams, it was very different from seeing the physical exhibition of corruption illness. The black stain on my back changed everything, made my illness concrete for him, rather than some abstract, unseen thing._

* * *

Selene crept back into their rooms in the early hours of the morning, quiet and careful in case Alistair was sleeping. A peek into the bedroom from the sitting room door confirmed her suspicions. Pulling the door closed, she moved to one of the chairs, wrapped herself in a blanket, and settled in to wait for him to rise.

Alone with her thoughts, she tried to tune out the ever present hum of the darkspawn calling her. If she was truly honest with herself, she could admit that she was surprised that she had staved off corruption sickness so long. She wondered if other wardens felt this sadness, this growing melancholy that burrowed ever deeper within her. Perhaps they were wise enough to go on their Calling before they became too apprehensive, too ghoulish, too compelled by the taint and less by their own reason, but she couldn’t help clinging to the last remnants of her life.

Her wonderful, beautiful life, the only one she would ever have. Tears stung her eyes again. Had she done enough? Had she _been_ enough? Whatever the answer, it would have to do, for she was far beyond helping anyone now—an even more disheartening thought.

All that was left was for her to go valiantly into the dark with her beloved by her side. Selene covered her mouth with her hand, stifling a sob that threatened to well up out of her. _Breathe,_ she thought. _Just as Alistair said, breathe._

After a few minutes of focused, calm breathing, her eyelids became heavy, her insomnia catching up with her, and she lit a candle to stave off what she knew would be an unpleasant sleep if she capitulated. Sensitive to light, she shielded her eyes and blinked until she became accustomed.

She saw them on the floor, in front of the couch—two sets of armor, neatly arranged, one black and one of white steel. Slowly, she stood and moved toward them, struggling against her failing memory to discern why they seemed so familiar to her. The smaller set of the two was obviously fitted for a woman—for her; she’d worn it once, she recalled—and the other must have been for Alistair.

Selene squatted before them, touching the breastplates gently, tracing the intricate inlay with a finger. She started at the sound of Alistair’s voice behind her, gentle though it was.

“Your Sentinel Armor, and the Hirol’s Defense set you brought back for me years ago. It’s been so long since we last wore them…I’m glad for that warden metabolism.” Alistair leaned against the doorframe to the bedroom, his hair mussed from sleep.

Selene laughed—a genuine laugh, not the bitter sound that seemed to have been all she could muster up lately. “How did you get these? We left them behind at Vigil’s Keep.”

“I _may_ have written a letter to Oghren.” He put up a hand at the start of her protestations. “He won’t tell anyone, don’t worry. I know you didn’t want anyone making a big fuss and I told him so.”

Selene gave him a flat look. “He’s a drunk, Alistair.”

“And that’s why no one will believe him, not until Vigil’s Keep receives notification from the Shaper of Memories. Anyway, I thought you might appreciate the gesture. Oh! And look here.” He lifted up what was obviously a wrapped staff from the couch, handing it to her.

Untying the leather strips holding the cover on, she pulled the canvas off, staring at the revealed staff for a long moment.

“Your favorite staff—”

“Lamppost in Winter, I remember,” she said softly, her eyes glistening. Her fingers touched the curved top, running along the length of volcanic aurum with reverence. She gripped it tightly, the feeling on her palm as familiar as broken in gloves, or a preferred pair of boots. “This is so thoughtful, I…I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything; there’s no need.”

She sat down again, the staff across her lap, her eyes downcast toward it. “Alistair, I want to tell you how much I have appreciated everything you’ve done for me. Not just in recent years, but…for making my life worthwhile. For giving it meaning.”

“Sweetheart, as far as I’m concerned, it’s a very fair trade.” He sat next to her, taking her hand gently in his, and kissing the back of it, ignoring the corruption blackening her skin there. “I’ve never had a lonely day since I met you.”

“Do you regret anything?”

Alistair sighed. “I only regret not running off with you sooner. Right after the Blight, we should have gone. We defeated a bloody archdemon; I think that’s commitment enough.”

Selene shook her head, her dulled, disheveled hair swaying slightly with the movement. “We never would have been happy, shirking our duties like that. We’re two of a kind, you and I.”

“A templar and a mage—more like polar opposites, I’d say.”

“I had to keep myself from turning into an abomination somehow. Oh, wait…”Alistair chuckled, and the two of them were quiet for a bit before she said quietly, “Hold me, just for a little while, before we have to leave.”

He obliged, and for the first time in a long time, and the last in her life, she slept soundly.

* * *

 Somewhere south of Ortan Thaig—in some unmapped portion of the Deep Roads—they walked in silence. Selene looked to him, the gentle glow on his face from the lava stream that ran parallel to the broken road. Alistair had aged much more gracefully than she had, and he wore it well. He seemed pensive, and she knew he felt it too, the ever stronger compulsion that drew them toward the thousands upon thousands of darkspawn that resided in the earth’s bowels.

“What’s on your mind?” Alistair asked, feeling her eyes on him.

“I was going to ask the same of you.”

His eyes darted to the front, “Nothing at all.”

_He’s not being truthful, not entirely._ “Really? If you have something to say, now’s the time.”

The darkspawn sensed _them_ now, and they were coming. “Let’s just stop here. This is as good a place as any. It, ah, won’t be long now,” he said, his voice quavering only slightly on the last words.

Selene set her pack beside Alistair’s, out of the way, by a large pile of rubble—not that it mattered. She was exhausted beyond all measure and doubted she would last to see another skirmish. Having already used all her lyrium potions, poultices, and other assorted supplies, her pack was fairly empty anyway. A small smile flittered across her lips at the thought that someday, some intrepid explorer with a small contingent of companions would come trekking down these roads and discover her pack, wondering whom it had belonged to and what they had been doing here.

So it was that the world would go on, with or without her in it. She hoped she left it a better place than she found it.

_I’m dead already. This is what the Legion of the Dead must feel like,_ she reflected briefly.

She looked to Alistair, his head bowed over his sword. He gripped its hilt, the tip of his weapon resting on the stone road, and she recanted her previous thought. She was dead inside…except for her feelings for him. They burned within her still, like the last embers of a dying fire.

The darkspawn were nearly upon them, and she rushed to his side, taking him by the breastplate and pulling him close to kiss him. His arms went around her waist, holding her as tightly as one could when both parties are armored.

She pulled back, her breath ragged and her forehead against his. “I love you, Alistair. I always have and will into whatever lies beyond.”

“And I have loved you from the moment we met, all those years ago in Ostagar.” He kissed her once more and then pulled away with a pained expression. “I have to tell you—”

“After, Alistair.” _If there is an after. If not, then it won’t matter. Enough has passed between us now. We have talked enough. It is_ enough _._

Inside, she felt a sort of warmth—the same she always felt before battle but something else was there. _Acceptance_ , she thought. The sweet bliss of acceptance, freedom as real and true as the day she fled Vigil’s Keep, hand in hand with her best friend and beloved.

_Enough. My life has been full and adequate. I have been sufficient, done plenty, been happy and loved. It is all enough._

She turned her clear blue eyes, finally devoid of sorrow, toward the horde she saw coming toward them, visible now in the dim light of the Deep Roads. Moving a few feet from where Alistair stood, she took her staff in both hands and faced their foes. An eddying cloud of mana surrounding her, intoxicating her, the cold of her staff and her magic cooling the air. “Let’s give it to them once more, my love,” she called above the great din of the creatures descending upon them. “For the Grey Wardens!”

* * *

So they danced, for what felt like hours, familiar steps to a memorable tune, Alistair somewhat rusty with his sword and Duncan’s shield and Selene a little slower with her staff than she used to be, but still a formidable duo in their own right.

Every once in a while, between numerous foes, Alistair risked a glimpse of her and saw the old Selene, as she had been before the Calling came upon her. She was a beautiful goddess unbridling the full power of a mage in her last throes of life, crying out with each cone of cold or arcane bolt she set upon them. When her mana was depleted, she used her beloved staff as a weapon in and of itself.

It was nearly the end of the battle—and he was as shocked as any that he would survive such an encounter—that he took such an ill-timed glance and unwittingly gave a hurlock the opportunity to run him through. The cowardly thing had put its greatsword through his back, and he looked down at the tip protruding from his abdomen.

“That’s…bad,” he said, just as the hurlock braced Alistair’s back with a foot, withdrawing the blade. The grey warden sank to his knees, clutching his middle in a futile effort to keep his blood from running out.

Selene, the only other living thing left on the gory battlefield besides the hurlock and Alistair, unleashed a bolt of energy the likes of which Alistair had never seen. It utterly drained her last reserves—reserves even she was surprised she had—but it did the job and obliterated the offending darkspawn.

By the time she staggered to him, a hand over a deep, spurting wound in her thigh, he had somehow propped himself up on a rock and gotten a hand under his breastplate, holding his own fatal injury. She dropped unceremoniously to the ground beside him, leaning back and sighing. Tossing her gauntlets to join her staff some feet away, she took Alistair’s bare and bloody free hand in hers.

“It’s been…a good ride,” she said through pale, dry lips. She could feel the blood pooling beneath her, rushing out faster as her adrenaline waned, and she began to grow lightheaded. Selene rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. “What was it…you needed…to tell me?”

Alistair squeezed his eyes shut tightly. He hadn’t meant to lie to her all these years, about his own corruption sickness—or lack thereof. It just was so simple to say he had been having the nightmares too, when asked.

He didn’t need to elaborate that his nightmares were about Selene’s death, about losing her. It made her feel less alone, and it was entirely plausible, given that they had both joined at nearly the same time. The truth of the matter, however, was that he hadn’t had any signs that it was time for his Calling; Alistair simply couldn’t let her go alone.

Squeezing her hand, he replied, “Just that you were…the best thing that ever happened to me.”


End file.
